


From the Sea, To the River

by Nabé (naberriel)



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Found Family, M/M, Original Character(s), Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24313852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naberriel/pseuds/Nab%C3%A9
Summary: Percy is a demigod.Percy has been a demigod for the last thirteen years, and he is rather good at it. Completely coincidentally, Percy has also been remembering a whole other life for the past thirteen years but shhh don't tell the Fates that.You're not supposed to bind two threads of life together, after all.OR: Perseus Jackson, a transmigration of the soul done wrong, and Ancient Greek tragedy that is all too present.
Relationships: Luke Castellan & Percy Jackson, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 124





	1. Chapter 1

In Medias Res

I'm pretty sure the sound of my mother's neck being snapped will haunt me for the rest of my life, however long -or short, at this rate- it may be.

For a moment, the world falls still. For a moment, all I can do is watch as her feet stop kicking, and her arms fall limp to her sides, as the sounds of her choking are abruptly cut off.

The monster ("They sent the Minotaur," Mom had choked out, shock and terror plain on her face) let's go then; a meaty hand opens from around a fragile slender throat, and Sally Jackson's corpse falls to the cold, hard ground with a sound that startles everything into motion again.

Mom mom mom mom mom mom

Someone is screaming. My throat burns. Distantly, I know I'm the one screaming but I've lost all control over my body. Rage has taken hold of me and I scramble up, pick up the discarded sword with bleeding, scraped hands, and launch myself at the monster.

I hate you.

The Minotaur roars and swings his axe. I yell, louder, but it's less vengeful and more an echo of my grief, and swing the sword. My movements are clumsy, awkward because I've never been a fighter, and the sword isn't mine (it was mom's, and she wielded it like it was a part of her) but for what I lack in preciseness and experience, I make up with speed and fury.

My ancient heritage proves itself true.

The monster is slowly backed against a wall, confused, apprehension starting to creep in and cloud its judgement. But I'm starting to tire, my blows coming slower, my panting getting heavier. I'm only twelve, only yet developing muscle mass, only yet getting invested into this whole demi-god business, and the Minotaur is 8 feet tall, big and strong and packaged with thousands of years of experience.

There's only me, now. Only me.

Mom is behind us now, my back is to her. Discarded like some broken doll, body still warm but so, so still. The morbid thought is a mistake, it has no place in a fight, and it's a testament to my grief that it digs its way up and through the haze of rage and fear. But one mistake is all it takes.

Mom.

I falter. The sword is knocked out of my hands, and the wrenching breaks some of my fingers. I barely feel the pain through the adrenaline-fuelled panic. The half-man, half-bull roars triumphantly. I back away hastily, warily eyeing the enemy.

Its lips pull up grotesquely, bizarrely, as if the monster himself is not used to moving those muscles like that.

It's grinning. My stomach churning in a sudden onslaught of nausea. It killed mom, and now it's gonna kill me, and it's enjoying this-

The Minotaur charges, and I duck, let it think it's going to barrel into me. I push the knife between its ribs, right into its heart, feel soft skin and bone and blood. Then there's gold dust, just as I'm thrown back from the blow.

My head hits the ground first, and I know no more.

.  
.  
.

There are voices talking, bickering more like. One sounds rough, like a smoker, and a hell of a lot angry, while the other is young, past puberty but laced with an undertone of authority. I can barely distinguish what they're saying through the loud pounding in my head.

"...ades sent his fucking-"

"Of course, whose fault.."

"...with me, boy. Don't forget who you're sp-"

"...ods wont be happy when they hear what you di-"

What happened? Confusion lances through me. Where am I? Where's Mom? 

My eyelids feel like they might weigh a ton or two, I can't seem to open my eyes. For one short second, all-consuming panic engulfs me. My breath hitches. Then the memories slam back and it takes all of my self-control to keep bile from rising up.

Crack. Mom. Monster. Gold.

I blink awake, and groan at the bright sky. I turn on my side -Gods, does everything hurt- and try to shield my eyes. Hot pain lances through me, and I bite down on a scream, squinting at my hand. Three of my fingers have been gotten a hasty splint job, and my whole hand is purpling. It feels like one big ugly bruise, the throbbing there only matched by the one in my skull. 

Gods, let's hope I don't have a concussion.

Careful. I just splinted them."

I look up and see a blond guy kneeling next to my head. It's then that I notice that the background argument has stopped. No sign of the smoker. The kneeling guy is older than me, but still young -not even twenty- even though the horrid scar on his face gives him a rugged, mature look.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Luke Castellan is talking to me.

My lips go numb. Why is he here? He should be at camp doing his counselor duties, or planning pseudo-evil plans with his monster goonies. He's not supposed to be here.

Neither am I.

"Who're you." I croak, ignoring that nasty little voice in my head. My throat hurts. Why does my throat hurt? Ah, right. I'd kept on screaming. I must have scrapped it raw.

"I'm Luke. Luke Castellan." He says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and helping me sit up, "Son of Hermes."

"Hermes," I mutter, drawing my knees to me and hugging myself into a tight ball, as soon as I'm in a sitting position. My head is killing me. "With the cool sandals."

That earns me a quick laugh, although I'm not sure if the hard edge under it isn't tinged with bitterness. "Yeah, the god with the cool sandals. That's my dad." He eyes me warily, lost on how to continue, "You know the... well, I guess you do, with the dust and the weapon-"

It takes me a second to get what he's going for, "I know I'm a demigod."

Luke looks relieved he won't have to explain the whole shebang to me, but the cautious look doesn't clear up. 

His eyes, a cerulean blue, study me. I get the feeling I'm coming up short. Not that anyone in basketball shorts and a too large anime shirt. Clothes I liked to use as pjs. At least I had the foresight to grab my sneakers when Mom and me fled the house.

I squint at our bright surroundings. The alleyway is dirtier and fuller than I first thought. Five feet of it is covered in dark yellow glitter that sparkles where the rays of sun hits them.

"What time is it?" It had been a bit before dawn when the monster caught up with us. The air feels cool on my skin. I hold back a shiver, not wanting to jostle my bruised body anymore than I have to. My nose wrinkles at the stench that permeates the air; it reeks of discarded trash, backalley piss, and a tangy rusty scent I know belonged to the monster dust.

Luke doesn't seem to notice the awful stench. A good thing, I guess, since I dont think I amelt like roses either. "Six thirty," he answers, after a look at his watch, "You've been out for a while."

No kidding, after that fall.

"Found some sheets." 

We turn to look at the mouth of the alley where a latino boy around my age is standing with some white sheets in his arms. Standing by Mom. Mom. 

My eyes lock on her sprawled body, and the world narrows around me.

I've avoided looking at her till now. I can't move anymore, the full weight of realization rooting me to my place.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. Luke. "I'm sorry," and I hate the honesty in his voice, "We heard the screams. Came as fast as we could buy- She was already gone when we got here."

I know. Of course I know. I watched it happen. I was there when... When- I was there, useless and scared and weak. Still a part of me had hoped. Hoped the awful crack if heard hadn't been her neck,had been her collarbone, or shoulder. Something fixable.

"Oi, sleeping beauty's awake!" The newcomer says, hints of a sneer on his boyish face. He drops the bundle of sheets carelessly on the ground. He's wearing an orange shirt with swirly writing on it. "Bueno, I'm Chris. Think you can help with this?"

With what? I want to ask, but it becomes obvious when Chris waves at the sheets. And at Mom.

Oh.

Oh.

Luke pats my shoulder. "Don't worry, I got it." And he stands up, leaving me shivering and curling unto myself. 

My eyes don't leave them. They spread one sheet on the dirty ground and together they lift Mom up to lay her on it. It's unnatural how loose her limbs are, how still she is. I should help, I realize. I should be the one to-

My vision blurs. The world narrows around me, crushing, crushing me slowly. I start dryheaving, and I am nicely in my way into a panic attack when Luke's voice breaks through the encroaching darkness.

"Hey- Hey! Breathe, okay? Breathe in- Wait… wait… Breathe out. Breathe in, wait, and out. In- yeah that's it- out." Warmth envelopes me. I realize I'm shivering like a leaf in the wind. I tug the warm object closer around me. It's a jacket. Luke's jacket. His hand is rubbing my back. "In and out. Slowly."

He's wearing a camp shirt, too.

It's weird how the brain chooses to focus on small details like that, even in the aftermath of a panic attack. But my shaking is slowing, my erratic breaths are calming and vision grows back.

"You alright, gringo?" Chris asks from where he's kneeling next to Mom. The sneer is still here but only barely. He does look more worried than derisive.

"Nobody came," I gasp, as soon as I have the breath for it. "It was so loud- We yelled for help- Nobody came-"

There's a frown on Luke's face. It deepens the shadows on his face and the scar on his face looks even more gruesome. "The Mist kept the Mortals at bay, probably. It's strange... Usually it barely exerts any effort to distort what they see and hear. Not enough to completely muffle it."

Chris blinks, and starts looking around suspiciously, "You think there's someone else? Something else?"

Luke shakes his head, "No one can manipulate the Mist to that extent. Except for-" A ringtone cuts through his musings. Luke grabs a phone out of his back pocket.

"I need to take this. Behave," he snaps at the younger boy, before jogging to the far end of the alley, already tapping the screen.

Chris pulls a face but continues working. Soon Mom's body is effectively wrapped in stolen sheets. I stay fixated on the stains it's already accumulated. Brown from the ground. Red from-

The guy pulls me out of my head before I can finish the thought, thankfully. "Who's the lady?"

"Mom," I murmur, tugging Luke's jacket tighter around me.

Mama.

"Ah, thought so," the guy shifts, clearly uncomfortable. He gets defensive when I send him a look. "You look a bit like her. She's young. Coulda been your sis. Mine would be turning 30 this year."

That's the first time someone says that. The guy politely ignores my flinch, studying the yellow dust still covering a good part of the alley. It's like someone had tripped and spilled two bins of gold glitter from two stories up. It's fucking weird to see trash and party glitter mingling like that. 

For a moment, all we can hear is the distant sound of cars and people waking up to fo about their day.

Luke comes back. "Our ride is on its way." His cerulean eyes study Mom before they come to rest on my -no doubt pathetic- form. I don't have the strength to do anything more than stare back with a haggard look.

"Hey," he says in a kind tone, "I didn't catch your name."

"It's Percy," I answer, dully, "Percy Jackson."

It's not. I'm a liar. But I've been one for a lifetime and it doesn't bother me anymore.

Luke kneels close to me, again.There's a faint upwards twist to his lips, a stark contrast to the severity in his brown eyes. It's as if he can't help it, as if something funny is always on his mind, despite the occasional harshness of the world. Or perhaps, it's that he finds funny.

Either way, the smile he gives me is genuine, "Hey, Percy," he says quietly, "It's nice to meet you."

My eyes water. I bury my face in my arms, and curl into a tighter ball.

Transport turns out to be a rusted orange mini-van, graffitied with the letters from the Greek alphabet in bold green. The only ones I recognize are alpha, beta and delta, the rest are a faintly unrecognizable mass of letters. 

Argus, the driver, is a silent man with eyes in places where eyes shouldn't be allowed to reside. I know it's rude to stare but I can't help it. Does he also have eyes on his- One closed eye on his calf opens and I swear it gives me a wink.

I try not to hover when the man picks Mom up with the strangest care and puts her in the back of the van. She looks like a big potato sack, I think and proceed to lose the contents of my stomach.

"What a wuss," I hear Chris scoff when I wipe my mouth, followed by a slapping sound. "Hey!"

"Here," Luke hands me a bottle. I expectes water but a surprised sound escapes me when I taste my favorite drink of both lives. Mint tea. My headache recedes, along with the pain all over my body. My hand is still obviously broken, but it's like I'd taken a strong painkiller, I can barely feel the throbbing pain.

Luke is grinning at the look on my face, "Ambrosia," he explains, "Drink of the Gods, and guaranteed fixer-upper for demigods."

"I want some too."

"Shut up, Chris."

He ushers us towards the van and climbs in the passenger's seat in front of a pouting Chris. I'm behind the driver and recoil when Argus takes the wheel. There's an eye on the back of his neck. Thankfully, it's closed. Having an eye watch me for a whole carride would've been the drop that spilled the bucket, pretty sure.

The van starts moving. We're leaving. Just like that. We're leaving this place. I cast a look in the rear-view mirror. 

There's a man at the entrance of the alley. His back is to us, and it takes me a while to decipher the words on his black leather jacket, because of my dyslexia. Something I'm still not used to, after a life of being a bookworm.

War is Pleasure.

I open my mouth, about to comment and then remember the smoker. I remember Luke's story. It's not hard to put two and two together.

"Where are we going?" I ask instead, after we take an upturn and ride up the nearest highway. It's a question I know the answer to, but it's best to keep up appearances.

Cerulean catch on my green eyes from the rearview mirror, "Camp Half-Blood. The one place where our kind is safe."

Camp Half-Blood. Where once the name would've brought out tingling excitement, now I can barely muster an ashamed resignation.

Chris turns to me then, as if he couldn't keep to himself any longer. "So, what did you kill?" He shrugs at the look I give him. "That was a lot of stinky monster dust, back there. How many monsters exactly? We keep a record at camp. I think Annabeth's got the highest tally."

He kicks the back of Luke's seat, "Or Scarface over here." He deftly ignores Luke's scoff, opening a pack of gummy bears he got out of nowhere, and turns back to me, "So? What hijo de puta-"

Argus klaxons. All his eyes swirl and fix themselves on Chris. It has a creepily dizzying effect, but it effectively manages to curb Chris' big mouth.

The Minotaur's roars resounds in my head. The smell of his sweat, that cloying barn animal scent and human musk and blood, the rage in its eyes. The very human hand around Mom's throat.

Crack.

It takes all of my self-control not to whimper. I want to hide my face in my knees, but resist the childish urge. Enough of that pathetic display. My answer comes quietly, "The Minotaur."

Silence, save for the rumbling of the car and the sound of activity on the highway.

"No fucking way."

"Chris-"

"What? There's no way a small pendejo puss-bunny like him managed to kill the Minotaur, Luke!" He snaps, and turns to me, grabbing a few gummy bears and flinging them at my head, "No fucking way in Hades! I didn't see no token!"

A token. The proof of the slaying of a monster. Medusa's head. The Minotaur's horn. He's not wrong. I killed the monster but I have nothing to show for it. No horn, or his nose ring, or even some fur. Another thing that makes me different from OG Percy. Am I even allowed to call him OG Percy after this? 

First I take his body, now I get his mom killed. What's next? Siding with Kronos?

Luke glances at me through the rearview mirror, looking uncomfortable. "Must've missed it. There was a lot of-" He cuts himself off, probably not wanting to remind me that my mom died in a filthy alleyway the trash collectors had scrapped from their route months ago. Well, too late for that.

"We must've missed it." He finishes lamely.

Argus taps the steering wheel, calling for attention. He signs one-handed as soon as Luke turns his head towards him.

"There's always a token," Luke translates, "You will get your token. Give it time."

An eye on Argus' arm blinks slowly at me. I get the feeling he's trying to reassure me. I look away.

I don't want a stupid token. I want mom.

It's not until Chris speaks that I realize I said that out loud. "Tough luck, gringo."

I shove my hands in Luke's jacket, holding back a wince when I'm too rough on my splinted hand, and lean back in my seat, "I'm Romanian."

He waves his hand. My stomach rolls at the brown bloodstains on his sleeves. "Flavored mayo, yeah, yeah. American. Greek. Romanian. Mexican. Who cares? Half our DNA is myth, anyways. Luke, push the radio button."

Luke gives and audible sigh but obliges. Spanish music blares from the speakers. For a moment, all I can do is stare at them.

What. The hell.

This whole thing is surreal. A mythological man in flip flops is driving, a scarred guy is opening the window and tossing a phone out, a thirteen year old is humming through a pack of gummy bears with bloodstains on his sleeves. There's a dead body behind us-

And there's me.

Exhaustion slams into me, threatening to drag me under the waves. My eyelids suddenly feel heavy. Despite the rising heat in the car as the day brightens, I burrow myself in the neck of Luke's jacket and close my eyes. 

I know, distantly, that things will only get more complicated from here on. And I know that I may have hit rock bottom but that doesn't mean I'm not able to dig further down. 

There's still so many questions (Why are they here? Why didn't Grover come save us? What did I do wrong?), and so many things to resolve (What's gonna happen with Mom? What do I do? Where do I go after this?), but with the headache gone, in the safety of the car with three competent guys, and sweet latin music serenading us, I let myself fall in the clutches of a dream.

Sleep. I tell myself. Leave it for later.

It's a long ride to Long Island.

.  
.  
.

A haze of green and blue. My earliest memory is vague. Yet, it's one of the best I have.

There's sound -a low laugh, a stranger's voice calling me Perseus and telling me you are my son- and there's feeling -warmth, comfort, you are safe here Perseus- and there's that certainty that the man in the memory is my father.

My father. The man Mom met on a beach twelve years ago. The man who loved her for one summer. A captain. A sailor. Someone bound to the oceans, just like me. Lost at sea. Not missing. Lost. Not dead. Lost.

A man I knew to be Poseidon.


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you like it?"

I tug the cap of my new parka over my head, look myself in the mirror and grin at the frog eyes that stick out. The parka is a soft viridian green with a headcap that's made into a frog head. It falls to mid-thigh and is at least two sizes too big for me. "I love it, Mom!"

Sally Jackson laughs then and flicks the little red flap that sticks out over my forehead. It's supposed to be the frog tongue. "I'm glad, then! It's nearly spring, I thought you'd like something not too warm that still protects you from the rain."

"I love it," I say again. I really do. I stroke a hand over the smooth material. A blind man can see the parka's made of quality material. This sure as hell didn't come out of a thrift store. She must've spent a pretty penny on it. "Thanks, Mom."

I have to stand on my toes to peck her on the cheek. Twelve year old I might be, I still haven't hit my height growth yet.

Mom smiles and goes to the kitchen, from where a delicious smell of freshly baked cookies is coming.

Outside our little apartment in Manhattan, thunder cracks the sky.

.

I wake up feverish, and squint up at Argus, who's retracting the hand which he'd shaken me awake with. There's a small smile on his face that straightens into a neutral line when Luke appears beside him. They're haloed by a bright blue sky. The sunlight throws half their faces into the shadows.

The sky's the one thing that doesn't make sense. It should be grey and dreary, announcing the coming of a torrent or a thunderstorm or a splattering rain, as it has been doing for weeks now. People blame climate change for the meteorological weirdness. They're only partly right. Zeus had been in a theatrical bad mood for a whole semester now.

"Fever's finally hit you, huh," Luke leans into my space and checks the temperature of my forehead in an echo of Argus, "Took longer than expected."

My tongue feels stuck to the parched roof of my mouth. "Wha- what's happening to me?" I can barely move my body.

"Monster dust. It might be sparkly but it's toxic for us demigods, especially the first few times. You were covered in it when we found you. We managed to get most of it off but you must've inhaled some." 

But it isn't the first time I got covered in monster dust. The Minotaur is definitely not the first monster I encountered and killed. This fever, however, is new. It's strange. I open my mouth but then think better of it.

"Don't worry, first time's always rough. You'll be mostly immune to it after your third kill or so." Luke says.

He and Argus haul me out of the car. My body hangs limply between them, I can barely plant my feet on the ground. The world goes hazy. Nausea crawls up my throat. I groan miserably. Someone -Argus- pats my head.

I promptly pass out. 

I don't want to go back to sleep. 

.

The next hours, or days -time is hard to keep track of when you're puking your guts out- are filled with weird dreams and very brief instances of wakefulness. My body feels bruised beneath the covers of the bed they put me in, and so heavy I cannot move a single too. I am effectively paralyzed. Everytime I'm awake someone has to turn me on my side so that I don't choke on my own bile.

That someone is always at my bedside, with a head of short curly blond hair and assessing aquamarine eyes. 

Not grey.

"You're not her," I mumble once, when my fever hits a peak and I feel like I'm simultaneously cooking and freezing from the inside. The blond -boy? Girl? Their features are fairly androgynous- helps me take sips of water for my parched throat.

"Who?" And if I wasn't sure before, the boyish voice and utterly flat chest tell me it's a boy. Or I'm being a stereotyping moron.

"Her." I whisper, already falling back asleep, "Ann…"

When I fully awake, it's to the sweet smell of strawberries carried in by the wind drifting through the open window. Birds are chirping and by the amount of light that falls in I know the sun has just risen up. I sit up, groggily rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

"Good, you're up." It's the boy, walking in through the open door and carrying a set of folded clothes. "You were out for about a day. How do you feel?"

Like shit, I'm about to say only to realize it's not true. The opposite actually. I feel like I'd got a good night's sleep. I close open my hand, feeling no pain. It's healed. My whole body is healed.

"Wow," I look at the guy, "Thank you."

He waves it away, "I'm an Apollo kid, it's what we do. Now follow me. I'll take you to the showers. "

Someone has washed me while I was out of it -Gods, I hope it wasn't him- but I won't say no to the chance of a real shower. Jumping out of bed, I realize I'm dressed in a papery shirt and calf length pants, the kind they give to hospitalized patients. 

He notices my confusion, "A satyr once worked at a hospital. He was kind enough to bring us supplies." He shrugs, "Your clothes were ruined. We like to use them."

I nod and follow him down the corridor. Apollo kid seems to sense my unasked questions as he begins explaining without needing prompting, "I don't know if they explained it to you but you're in Camp Half-Blood. The infirmary, to be precise. You inhaled too much monster dust, and had your first go at Ambrosia. That's why you developed a fever. The human part is not made to combat that. Luckily for you, it passes quickly."

He leads me to a room down the corridor which seems to be a hospital bathroom. Nothing extravagant; a glass door shower, a sink, a small bathtub and a few cupboards. 

"Take as long as you need." He tells me and leaves, for which I'm secretly grateful. I need time to myself, to think, and really, to just be.

I go under the stream. Immediately my muscles tense and my lungs expand. I let out a baleful sigh and close my eyes. Water has always had an energising effect on me. It heals me too, otherwise my body would have a lot more scars and bumps from years of playing it rougher than the average New York problem child.

I concentrate until the damp droplets on the glass door start sliding towards a center point. They amass and cling together, forming one big puddle that defies gravity. I make the puddle write out my name, then let it form a fish, a heart-

Except none of that happens. Just like the thousand other times I tried to shape water, nothing happens. There's not one hydrogen and oxygen bond in the universe that has ever bowed to my will, in either of my lives, and not for the first time I wonder why the hell I was reborn as Percy Jackson. I'm turning out to be a shitty replacement, that's for sure.

Useless.

I quickly finish washing off, and dry myself with a fluffy towel I find in one of the cupboards. The clothes I was given consist of the orange Camp Half-Blood T-shirt that's two sizes too big for me, socks, underwear, and gym shorts (thankfully, those fit). 

I open the door to Apollo kid holding up my shoes. Someone has cleaned them. The gesture, wholly unnecessary but kind, threatens to break the unnatural calm state I am in.

"Come," he says, "Time to meet the big heads."

He leads me through hallways, a few rooms filled with cots and then out in the dawning day. The mini-van is parked in front of what I assume must be the Infirmary. We follow a well-trodden path across the edge of a lush forest, our footsteps muffled by the twittering of birds and the rustling of bright green leaves in the wind. 

Camp Half-Blood is beautiful. Peaceful. Just as I imagined. Just like Mom told me.

Don't think about her.

The Big House, true to its name, has to be the biggest chalet slash tree house I've ever seen. The inside is even bigger than the outside makes it seem. Luke is waiting for us.

"Percy," he greets me with a small upward twist of his lips. He turns a neutral look at my companion. "Thanks… Michael, was it? You can go, now."

Apollo kid, Michael -his name tickles in the back of my brain- stays where he is and mutters, "Not my counselor." 

Luke pauses and fixes him with his steel blue eyes. Maybe it's the scar, maybe it's the chilling contrast of his eyes with the deep tan of his face, maybe it's the way he holds perfectly still, or maybe it's because his expression doesn't change. Whatever the reason, Michael mutters something unintelligible and disappears out the double doors.

Luke looks like he wants to sigh but turns to me instead. "You're going to meet the directors of the Camp. They're different from you and me. Chiron is a nice guy. It's the god you've to be careful of." He lowers his voice, "Words of advice, Percy, if you want to survive to your eight-teens," the play on words is a dull surprise, "Don't trust gods."

He waits, his stare boring into me. Only after I give a slow nod does he lead me to the backroom, where a fat man is sitting at a small table playing a board game on his lonesome. Bottles of wine sit haphazardly around him. 

Three guesses who this is.

Dionysus finally deigns to look up from the board. His eyes, rimmed red and watery the way all sleepless alcoholics' eyes are, settle on me. They widen. I'm suddenly painfully aware that I get a lot of my looks, of Percy's looks, from the godly side of the family. A godly side Dionysus is part of, and knows intimately. 

He must be seeing the resemblance.

"So, you're the new brat, huh," Dionysus looks me up and down, "Thought you'd be taller."

Two sentences in and he already manages to pinch my sore spot. "Who the fuck are you?" I say flatly, ignoring Luke's sharp whisper of "Percy!"

The god of wine takes a big gulp out of a wine bottle. Water drips down his double chin but what he splatters on his bermuda shirt is a distinct wine red. "Not the brightest, eh? God of wine and parties, Camp Director against will and fortune, Agrios, Bassareus, the one and only Dionysus, not at your disposal."

My brows furrow, "Thought you'd be handsomer."

Luke's faint "Oh my gods," is drowned out by Dionysus' loud bark of laughter. "You're going to be a problem, I can already smell the bullshit on ya. And Chiron thinks he's got you already pegged. Chiron! Where's that sentimental fool? Chiron, bring your hooves!"

"No need to yell, Lord Dionysus." We turn to the newcomer entering the room in his wheelchair.

"Mr. Brunner." I say.

"Perseus," he sounds and looks grave. He cuts straight to the point. "I wish we could've done this under better circumstances. I've kept things from you. Secrets about your heritage, certainly. And secrets that are mine."

He grows out of his wheelchair, his real form, his horse parts gradually appearing from under his waist. Bronies would have a field day if they were here to witness it. As it is, the only reaction out of me is a hum. Chiron notices my unsurprised expression. 

I shrug. "I've always known."

"And your mother never brought up Camp?"

"She did. But I didn't want to leave her alone. Besides, evading monsters is easy." I furrow my brow, "Was easy. I don't know why-" lie, "but this year they started showing up more and more."

"Wait, the Minotaur wasn't your first monster?" Luke pipes up, "Then why did the dust make you so sick?"

I'm fairly sure it was the Ambrosia that turned me into a feverish, puking mess. I'm also fairly sure only mortals and monsters experienced pain from drinking or eating the food of the gods. As I'm not looking to get on anyone's radar, I opt to divert attention from this potential thread of thought. 

"Before the Minotaur, there was another monster." The lie slips out easily. A lifetime of lying to a scarily observant mother about a secret past life bears its fruits. "Think it poisoned both me and mom. We couldn't think straight after. That's why the Minotaur got us easy."

"Got you good, too," Dionysus mutters. "Let's cut to the chase, shall we. Do you know who your daddy-o is, boy?" He nods at me.

I think about the men in mom's life. Poseidon, duh. But others came after. The biker guy. Her boss who always smells like candy.

I shrug, "No."

Chiron frowns, "She never told you? Nothing?"

"She would've," I tell them flatly, "But I never cared about him."

Luke clears his throat two times. Except for him behind me, the room is silent. Until Dionysus snorts. "Oh, they're going to love this," he sniggers under his breath.

Chiron clears his throat, "Be that as it may, Percy. You should know this about him. Your father is a greek god. That is why the monsters are after you."

I give a slow blink. Too slow, maybe, because Dionysus seems to come to a realisation. "Right, nearly forgot," he mumbles and snaps his fingers.

A dizzying sensation overcomes me, and I stagger back, right into Luke's chest. He places steadying hands on my shoulders.

"W-what happened?" I stammer faintly, clutching my head. It's as if it's been filled with cotton. Or more like, it was filled with cotton this whole time, and I'm only just noticing.

"Nothing much. A numbing spell," he waves dismissively, "Didn't want a screaming, hysterical -not to mention snotty- kid on my hands before Summer Camp's even started, so I…" and here he shoots an inquisitive look at Chiron, who's frowning disapprovingly, "...dampened your emotions. They'll be coming back to you over in the following hours, along with a migraine or two. You're welcome."

All I do is stare. It's a very good thing that I've been effectively lobotomized, because otherwise, I'd have smashed one of the wine bottles over his big fat head. 

Dionysus loses interest in the conversation after that and Chiron is left to explain what Camp Half-Blood is, what life as a demigod entails, etc. Nothing I don't know from the books. "Until your godly parent claims you, you'll be residing in the Hermes cabin," he says and lays a proud hand on Luke's shoulder, "Luke is Counselor and will help you assimilate to Camp life."

Luke offers me a grin I don't return.

Dionysus claps his hands once, "Now that we got the introduction over with, I got a game to finish with you Chiron. Dismissed, boy."

I turn to give him my full attention, "My name's Percy."

"Yeah, yeah, Peter." He waves lazily.

"Per-cy." Asshole.

Dionysus looks at me then, with bloodshot eyes the color of wine, and shows me-

It's mad emperor Nero dressing himself in fur and attacking servants, dragging his empire down with him, it's the prisoner in Guantanamo suffering through unjust prosecution and crying and screaming and never stopping, it's the witches of Salem pleading for mercy and burning, burning bright-

"Lord Dionysus." Chiron's voice cuts through the haze of madness and the fat god huffs but turns back to his pinochle board.

I lower my eyes and take a quiet shuddering breath. Alright, alright. I get the message. Open my mouth, get turned into a dolphin. I don't say anything else.

Luke's grip on my shoulder is tight to the point of painful as he drags me out of the Big House. The day has brightened even more, and the Camp is fully awake by now. I can hear the campers talking and laughing in the distance, probably heading for the breakfast area, wherever that might be.

"You," he sighs when we're ten paces out the door, "are a problem." 

"Let go." I say and can't help but notice the flat tone of my voice, the way my brain is telling me what I'm supposed to feel, instead of secreting the necessary hormones and making me feel. 

Luke lets go. "Come." He beckons me to follow him.

"I'm not hungry," I quickly say, which is half-true. I won't say no to an egg sandwich but just the thought of facing three dozen curious hyperactive teenagers after the visions silences any pang of hunger.

He makes a noise of disbelief, keeps on walking. "Even if you were, I'm not taking you to the Pavilion."

"Where are we going, then?" I ask, two steps behind him. 

He looks over his shoulder at me. His eyes are unreadable. "We're going to bury your mom. You should say goodbye."

.

A young woman waders knee-deep in the cold ocean water. The soft waves lap at her rolled up jeans and a cool breeze ruffles her brown curls. She's looking for seashells, has already collected a few pretty ones and holds them in her left hand.

She looks up and meets the gaze of a young man with windswept black hair and seagreen eyes. In his hand, a queen conch.

She smiles.

A time and a world away, the Fates snip a dark blue string.

.

They bury her at the edge of the forest, at the base of a large tree, just outside of the barrier where the sky is a foreboding grey and the air is stagnant and humid. Mortals can't enter the domain, and a dead mortal is still a mortal.

Chiron has beat us there, along with Argus and, to my utter surprise, Chris.

There she lays, washed and dressed in a white chiffon, her long brown hair left loose. The soft curls frame her serene facs. She looks young. She is young, I realize. She's my age. She was eighteen when she had me. Thirty is nowhere near old enough to die.

I don't know what the procedure is for these things. Surely, this isn't the first time a mortal parent has died on their doorstep? But Chiron stays silent, face solemn. We stand there for a few awkward moments, the only sounds being out quiet breaths and the wind rustling the leaves of the forest. 

Chris doesn't hide his yawn, nor the impatient glare he shoots me. "We don't have all day, romano."

"Chris, for Hades' sake, man," Luke says, exasperated and pulls him back so they all form a semi-circle behind me.

At first, I don't understand. Then realisation hits me. And it hits hard. This is a burial. There has to be an eulogy. By me. The only person among us who knew her.

"Mo-" I begin, but my voice breaks. I clear my throat. Don't be a baby, I think furiously. "Mama- Mama. I'm sorry. I miss you." What else? What else, dammit. My mind is blank. I'm not feeling anything.

My mom is going to be buried and I feel nothing, because a god decided to mess with my brain and didn't give a single fuck about my thoughts on the matter. Otherwise I would be a screaming crying pile of demigod failure. "I-I-"

"Gods, this is embarrassing." Chris mutters but even that comment is said very softly.

I take a deep breath. "Salma Anais Jackson. Sally Jackson. Mama." My voice trembles with the effort I'm putting. "I love you. Goodbye."

Nothing happens for a minute. Then the grass around her moves. It starts wrapping itself around her, covering her, hugging her. The earth under her turns and she's slowly but swiftly eaten up my nature. I take a step forward but Chiron puts his hand on my shoulder. Her face goes last and when the tip of her nose disappears, new flowers sprout and form a rectangle, marking what's now mom's grave.

The warm wind rustles the leaves of the trees, moves the flowers and the grass. I stay there, staring at the place where she's just been buried. I am suddenly very very glad my emotions have been muted. Still, my hands are shaking.

Chiron squeezes my shoulder, "Do you want me-"

"No." I cut him off quickly. I don't care what he has to say, don't have the energy to look at, nevermind speak with anyone. 

"Okay." His hand retreats, "We will leave for Camp. Come back when you are ready." I hear the clip clop of his hooves recede, followed by footsteps of the others.

Finally alone, I kneel next to where mom's head is buried and lean back against the tree. I close my eyes and let myself fall back in the dull embrace of cotton thoughts. 

Sorry, Mom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going full AU right off the bat! Canon divergence baby! No point in sticking to the original plot, nevermind the original character dynamics.

**Author's Note:**

> We're all here after the live action announcement, right?
> 
> ...
> 
> SI into Percy Jackson. A realistic take on the PJO series. Expect a lot of canon divergence, deep delving into Greek Mythology, and coherent worldbuilding.


End file.
